In this beautifully illustrated and amewsingtale, Vanity is faced with a domestic dilemma—her pet humans have rescued two adorable kittens who are (GASP!) cuter than Vanity.Our heroine plots to have the rivals removed and then the fur truly starts to fly. Buy copies for all your friends and favorite felines so that you can discover the surprising ending together.

Where: TecaTu at Sambusco Center, 500 Montezuma

When: Saturday November 21st Noon – 2 pm

Vanity’s earlier exploits were chronicled in “Diary of a Santa Fe Cat” and “Vanity in Washington” and her newest book has the critical wags wagging:

“Sophisticated, sassy & satirical account.” ---Catmopolitan Magazine

“I always get the latest scoop from her. Vanity has the best nose for news.” ---Rachel Meowddow

“I love her books, I follow her on twitter, I celebrate her celebrity. She’s a real diva.”--- Kim Katdashian

You are invited for Readings, Frivolity and Feline Fun.

Stock up on this purrfect holiday gift for all your friends. It’s the cat’s meow of stocking stuffers.

As a woman of a certain age, I remember when being a beloved small-town doctor was the norm in hamlets across America. Physicians were revered by their community and ran their practices to meet the individual needs of each of their patients.

I was recently trying to explain this galaxy far, far away to my great granddaughter Isabel, age 8. I told her about Dr. Jack, my homespun, small-town Indiana physician who made house calls when I was young.

“Oma Peggy, you always make up the best stories. Doctors aren’t allowed inside your home; they’re in hospitals. No wonder you are a writer; you’re a far-fetcher.”

Isabel considered this more and responded, “Don’t you have a bunch of doctors who help you with your Parkinson’s?”

As usual, Isabel nailed it. In the past, you had a doctor for life, now you have a team. And while I love the concept of a small-town, home-calling doctor, I have become convinced that teams work better in today’s medical world.

My Parkinson’s journey started 15 years ago and, after much searching, I found Dr. Paul Gordon at the University of New Mexico. He was a gentle and kind man with a wry sense of humor and a breadth of knowledge about Parkinson’s. Being naïve I thought this relationship would last a long time.

But I quickly learned that today doctors lead a peripatetic lifestyle. Within a few years, Dr. Gordon left his post at the University of New Mexico to head back to New York City. I was sad, but felt that we would remain friends and he’d be on my care team for life.

He recommended that I contact some of his colleagues at the University of Arizona in Tucson, just a 45-minute flight from New Mexico.

It was there that I discovered the value of building a medical dream team. My new neurologist, the affable Dr. Scott Sherman, told me on my first visit that he’d put me in touch with “some folks who can make your life a lot easier.”

It was then I discovered that it takes a village to care for Parkinson’s.

Dr. Sherman then introduced me to Dr. Cynthia Holmes, a health psychologist. She was my guide through the confusing world of Parkinson’ s, as well as a librarian, researcher and friend, all rolled into one package.

These women have enough energy to fuel a small nation. I was a participant in their pilot program called BIG and LOUD. Here I learned to become more self-aware of my movements. We’re taught to take note of our small steps, and, instead, take huge steps, making us feel like the Marx brothers leaping across the stage. The program also addressed issues related to speech. We had lessons in how to amplify our speech. When I thought I was screaming like I was in a skit from Saturday Night Live, I was actually talking normally.

It was hard work, but what a feeling of accomplishment.

My dream team gave new meaning to the word enthusiasm. My doctors love their jobs and feel passionately about the benefits of their exercise and speech therapy programs — Parkinson’s has met its match.

I recently introduced Isabel to my team and suddenly it was a whole new ball game.

'Wow," Isabel said with astonishment. "Your team is cool. And you didn't make them up."

At last! My reputation as an old-fashioned journalist was intact. And convincing Isabel, the little cynic, that I spoke the truth was like hitting a ball out of the park.

Friday, November 14, 2014

AUTHOR’S NOTE : My friend Pam is an exceedingly modest person and does good deeds because they need to be done, not to see her name in print. My purple prose sometimes embarrasses her. But I think in today’s insane world filled with cruelty and unspeakable acts of violence, it is important to record acts of kindness. As human beings, we need to recognize, in a world gone mad, there are still many good, authentic people who continue to be civilized and practice the golden rule.

Everyone should have a friend like Pamela, a life-long mate that you can trust and count on, no matter what.

Pamela is Nancy Drew to my Bess,

Tonto to my Lone Ranger,

Ginger Rogers to my Fred Astaire.

The Pulitzer-prize winning author, Anna Quindlen points out that the mark of a good friend is that she always shows up. Pamela, my best high school friend, has shown up in my life time and time again. And not only shown up but shown up ready to help, calling to mind one of my favorite mantras of the Dalai Lama

“Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.”

Stories of kindness and jocularity in high school abound.

Pamela was often the lead in our high school musicals. She could belt out a tune. I was in awe of Pam; not only did she have the talent; she had the lineage ------- a pretty mother who had hosted her own radio show and been the lead singer in a band. Romantic stuff for Indiana circa 1963.

I had neither talent or pedigree. I had no singers lurking about on my family tree. My family was all about commerce. And our voices were not suited for a Broadway play; more appropriate for calling pigs.

When my husband had his first knee replacement surgery in Tucson, Pamela traveled 2,000 miles and stayed with us for two and a half weeks; Cheer leader, referee, advisor, nurse, marriage counselor, she was a gift from the Gods.“Men will be men” she reminded me while lending a sympathetic ear to any of David’s ailments.

But Pam was also a pragmatist as well as a budding psychologist. She realized that what I really wanted was to be part of this musical comedy family. What I lacked in singing finesse, I made up in writing talent. I wrote my first play at age seven and have been penning words ever since.

I became the official “play doctor” and re-wrote awkward prose and punched up boring lines. I loved being part of the whole ensemble and this experience served me well when I started writing plays as an adult. I often call Pamela for theatrical advice.

“Location. Location. Location” In high school, real estate proved to be my biggest asset. Our Georgian style country home had the biggest basement “rec” room of anyone in my class. It became the go-to place for all dress rehearsals for high school plays.

And while I was well- liked in high school, I didn’t realize till years later that it wasn’t entirely my magnetic personality that made my class-mates flock to my country home every weekend. A huge state-of-the-art pool table was the true star of the show!

Pam prepared me to become a Broadway maven, but later gave me the ultimate life lesson --cooking instructions. To this day, cooking is one of my passions and that first lesson (Pasta by Pam) whet my appetite for a life-long adventure with food.

Cooking was not even on the itinerary at our household. My mother had a permanent “CLOSED” sign, hanging in our kitchen. No diva to domesticity, if forced to make anything for dinner, Mother made reservations!

Pam’s secret family spaghetti sauce was filled with juicy tomatoes, olive oil and something I had never ever seen in my mother’s kitchen--garden-grown fresh spices. My mother had two spices that covered everything: salt and pepper.

Our friendship did not end when the band played Pomp and Circumstance. Au contraire! Pam was the role model for the saying “A friend in need is a friend indeed.”

Her most selfless act was escorting my 94-year-old-mother from her home in Palm Beach, Florida to my adobe abode in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

My late mother’s role model was Queen Victoria and at a brunch in honor of her birthday, she held court in my living room.

This soiree, filled with magnificent food, charming presents and chocolate galore was a spectacular event if I do say so myself (and I do).

The party’s theme was “the universality of women’s friendship” and my living room was filled with my lovely granddaughter and favorite girl friends who had all stepped up to the plate since I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

Armed with a microphone and my “show-off” personality, I saluted these chums who had been there for me. In the audience as well was Peggy, my namesake, and my mother’s OLF (Oldest Living Friend).

The two lifetime friends had that special bond that comes from privileged summers spent lakeside in an oversized Victorian cottage in northern Michigan, complete with nannies and cooks.

It was the last happy memory of my mother and I owe the success of the fete to Pamela.

The one thing I have learned for sure as an adult is that “Friends are the new family.”

You can’t pick your family of origin, but you can create a lovely, nurturing family filled with delightful friends. Pamela, in my heart of hearts, you have always been my honorary sister, someone who never failed to deliver the goods.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Friends are the family you choose for yourself. There are friends on
Facebook—intangible, invisible and untouchable. And then there are real
chums—compadres and comrades-in-arms who help you over life's hurdles, quietly
and heroically.

Like my high school mates who, last week, showed up at my mother's funeral to
hold my hand and offer a cup of comfort. It was a display of "Hoosier
hospitality" at its finest. The day after the memorial service, a three-hour
lunch was held in my honor. My time-travel gyroscope whirled into action and
voila...we 70-year-old grandmothers were magically 17 again. We shared stories
from high school, we shared stories from today. We never ran out of
conversation or laughter.
I had known these people longer than I had known my husband. There was a deep
and binding connection. This group of chums was splendid and supportive in high
school and, amazingly enough, half a century later, they still are. Thank you
Sara, Lanie, Jenny, Judy, Helen, Ruth, Mary Helen and, especially, Pam!

Monday, July 7, 2014

Parkinson’s disease is the unwanted third party in my marriage: he’s the
elephant in the room, the man who came to dinner, and the worst house guest
ever, all rolled into one.

How
has this insidious intruder affected my wedded bliss? Initially his shenanigans
did indeed cause havoc in our household. This spook, who I cynically call the
Parkinson’s gremlin, was determined to put a “Foreclosure” sign on our lives.
To be sure, he has huffed and he has puffed, and yet our house still stands.

He is
a formidable opponent, but we are stronger than he is. My husband, David and I
figure that there are two of us but only one of him, so we will prevail!

A
comforting and powerful way to view this relentless battle is to realize that
those of us with Parkinson’s are part of a global community and that we are not
alone. When we recently attended the 2013 World Parkinson’s Congress (WPC) in
Montreal, there was an inherent sense of community and hope. During the welcoming address, Bob Kuhn, a WPC
Ambassador and a person with Parkinson’s, encapsulated this feeling of optimism
with the simple, yet profound observation:

“The
biggest difference between illness and wellness is that illness starts with the
word “i” and Wellness starts with the word “We.”

David
and I are the “We”, with a capital W, in this battle and Parkinson’s disease is
the insignificant, lower case “i”.

The
only thing that my husband and Parkinson’s disease have in common is that they
both entered my life quickly and unexpectedly and caught me by surprise. But I
am getting ahead of myself, so let me start at the very beginning -- a very
good place to start.

David
and I met on a blind date, six months after I had pulled the plug on the
“wedding of the year” to my high school sweetheart. The Midwest circa 1968 was
an uncompromising place where your word was your bond, so when I phoned the
printer to order “The wedding has been canceled” cards, he informed me in no
uncertain terms that “In Indiana, if we say we are going to get married, we get
married, no matter what!”

I
fled back to my home and job in cosmopolitan Atlanta, where I worked as a movie
publicist. My friends there, much more understanding and supportive, took me
under their wings, offering to play matchmaker.

“I’m
through with Love! “ I declared defiantly. “From now on, there will only be
superficial dating, uninvolved fun and gourmet food.”

So,
when Carol, a childhood friend, told me she wanted to fix me up with a recently
divorced physicist who would be passing through town, I agreed, reluctantly,
thinking there would at least be a free meal. The stats of this mystery man,
however, sounded dreary. Physicists are known to be nerds with calculators on
their belts; they wear mix-matched socks and their conversations are filled
with equations and formulas. What was I thinking?

Sighing,
I made a dinner reservation at the brand new Hyatt Regency, the current talk of
the town. Even if the date turned out to be as dismal as I expected, at least
I’d enjoy a delicious repast at this elegant hot spot.

Imagine
my surprise when I met David at the airport. He looked nothing like a member of
the cast of The Big Bang Theory. Rather, he was a good-looking chap with
beautiful curly hair and an engaging smile. His clothes, admittedly, could have
come from the physicist ready- to- wear rack, but they were obviously covering
a magnificent body.

During
the drive to the restaurant, I discovered that David was extremely intelligent
and that he had a dry wit and a flair for word play. I was delighted to find
him a fellow wordsmith, employing language with precision and insight.

We
stayed up the whole night talking. Giddy with champagne and urbane
conversation, our repartee was as sparkling as a Noel Coward play. We were
finishing each other’s sentences with language inspired by P.G Wodehouse and
The Bard. By the time “light in yonder window broke” I had decided that this
was the man I was going to marry!

My
erstwhile supportive friends in Atlanta had, in the meantime, prepared a list
of would-be blind dates for me. “Married?” they scoffed. Had I taken leave of
my senses? Before my very eyes, they instantly became a Greek chorus of
naysayers:

“He’s
not Jewish.”
“He’s a physicist.”
“He’s divorced
with kids.”

I paid them no
heed and instead followed my heart.

Reader, I married him !

And now here we are, 45 years later.

We
began our married life in quirky, delightful Austin, Texas where David was an
assistant professor of Electrical Engineering at The University of Texas and I
owned a small, creative advertising agency. I relished being a stepmother and
raising David’s two children, ages 5 and 9. I apprenticed myself to the
cookbooks of Julia Child, mastering the most delicious of the domestic arts,
even as I was a passionate advocate for the Women’s Movement.

Five
years later, we moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where David had taken a position
as a research scientist at the nearby Los Alamos National Laboratory. My
transition, however, wasn't so easy. My “Are-we
-there-yet?” personality did not match the laid-back manana style of
mellow Santa Fe.

Although
a cultural mecca, laden with a rich history of science (birth of the nuclear
age) and art (from rock art to pop art, from Aztec to high tech), Santa Fe was
the slowest place I’d ever been. I was told by the locals that I suffered from
what the Navajos call the “hurry sickness.”

I had
always planned to write books “someday.” With no job market in Santa Fe, I
realized that “someday” had arrived and made the enormous professional leap
from the adrenaline rush of advertising to the slower, more reflective world of
author and teacher. The adjustment was difficult, but, eight books and hundreds
of articles later, I am very grateful that I was forced to switch gears.

Drawing
on my experience, I wrote several books on women in business, then branched
into humor pieces, penning articles for local and national publications. When I
took on travel writing, David joined me in this pleasant research, and we took
long lovely journeys to explore places I had never heard of before. Throughout
it all, we were madly in love. Like our
first conversation many years earlier, our relationship tripped along with
harmony and humor.

In
2000, though, I started to notice a strange assortment of nagging annoyances.
My voice, never loud to begin with, now took forced effort to project, a
growing problem when I was delivering speeches and conducting workshops. My
left arm lagged when I walked, out of synch with the rest of my gait. But when
I started losing weight for no perceivable reason, my confounded doctor
referred me to a neurologist.

My
central nervous system was on Red Alert when we showed up for the appointment.
Independent research on my symptoms had posed a wealth of unsavory
possibilities, and I was torn between suspense and a desperate desire to hide
under the bed with my cat, Bosque. David sat beside me, calmly holding my hand until we were ushered into the doctor’s
office. With a bedside manner as cold and sterile as her instruments, the
neurologist ran me through a battery of coordination tests before pronouncing
in a monotone voice, “You have Parkinson’s disease.”

I was
shocked into silence. David, ever so staunch and cheery, was stunned. Moments after delivering this life-changing diagnosis, the
honorable doctor informed us that she had a hospital board meeting to attend,
and we would have to leave. I literally felt like The Little Match Girl who
was hurled out into the snow.

The
voyage on the S. S. Parkinson’s is clearly not the journey we signed up for,
but David has been by my side every step of the way. PD is not a welcome guest in our
relationship, but David and I constantly remind each other that our mantra will
always be “there are two of us but only one of him, so we will prevail.”

During
the 13 years since my diagnosis, life has definitely been difficult, and at
times, felt impossible. This unwanted third party of a disease has made itself
at home in our lives, and with each progressing symptom it has educated us, not
only about the maddening, unpredictable nature of Parkinson's disease, but also
about each other. I have gradually learned to surrender my fierce independence,
allowing myself to be vulnerable in ways I would never have dreamed of before.

And
David, considerate husband that he is, has risen to the challenge. His help and
perspective have daily provided shelter and guidance. Administering medications
to try to balance the wildly fluctuating levels of dopamine in a PD patient is
a guessing game and a gamble, but at least I have a backer. David's
methodical, scientifically trained mind is much better at tracking the
never-ending schedule of prescriptions I must take. And, when I am mystified by
my own symptoms, he can tell, by a single glance at my face, whether or not I'm
over-medicated.

Our
relationship has adjusted to incorporate the work of managing my symptoms, but
we haven’t been overcome by this task. We still enjoy romantic dates and visits
with family and a circle of diverse and loyal friends. Our love of travel
inspired us to take a transatlantic voyage aboard the Queen Mary 2 last year.

I am
engrossed in the various projects that make up my thriving writing career, and
have recently celebrated the release of a book on yoga for people with
Parkinson’s. David has shrugged off his
paltry attempt at retirement and parlayed his 40-year love of folk dancing into
developing a scientific study on the myriad benefits of folk dancing for those
with PD.

Obviously,
Parkinson's disease has changed and revised our perspectives, both in the
intimacy of our relationship and in our public lives. PD has provided writing
and scientific material we would have never otherwise tackled. But it has never
disempowered us, and in its way, has even united us in a common focus.

That
sharing of focus has proven essential in keeping our relationship vital. I look
at David and see not only my love, but a comrade in arms. As Antoine de Saint
Exupery wrote,

“Love
does not exist in gazing at each other, but looking outward in the same
direction.”

Award-winning
author Peggy van Hulsteyn divides her time between Santa Fe, New Mexico and
Tucson, Arizona. Her new book, “Yoga and Parkinson's Disease: A Journey To
Health and Healing" (Demos Health Publication) , is in the top 20 of
Amazon’s “Best Sellers in Parkinson’s Disease" list and is
available at Amazon.com.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

TUCSON, A.Z.—Award-winning author
Peggy van Hulsteyn signs copies ofher
new book “Yoga and Parkinson's Disease: A Journey to Health and Healing “ on
Sunday, March 16 from 11 am to noon at the Tucson Festival of Books.Van Hulsteyn also presents a
lecture on how yoga can greatly improve the quality of life for Parkinson's
patients on Tuesday, April 1 from 2 to 3:30 p.m. as part of a monthly educational lecture series, at Tucson Medical Center's
El Dorado Health Campus, Seniors Classroom, 1400 N. Wilmot Rd. in Tucson. Tucson yoga
instructor Stephanie Christenson will join van Hulsteyn at the Tucson Festival
of Books and the lecture at the Eldorado Health Campus to lead the audience in
short and simple yoga poses.

“Yoga and Parkinson's Disease,”
endorsed by the Michael J. Fox Foundation, is a practical, how-to guide for
using yoga to manage stress, improve mental alertness, increase flexibility,
correct posture and improve the quality-of-life of readers with Parkinson's.
The book chronicles the author's own
experience as well as research studies that document a correlation between yoga
practice and better health after a Parkinson's Disease diagnosis. More than
simply an exercise guide, the book is a deeply soothing form of moving
meditation and physical activity that provide a safe, effective way to rebuild
strength, stamina, and flexibility.

Van Hulsteyn is the author of six books, including “Diary of a Santa Fe
Cat,” “Sleeping with Literary Lions: The Booklover's Guide to Bed and
Breakfasts,” “The Birder's Guide to Bed and Breakfasts” and “What Every
Business Woman Needs To Know To Get Ahead.” She has published humor, feature,
business and travel articles in Mademoiselle, Cosmopolitan, Modern Bride,
Country Living, Cat Fancy, New Mexico Magazine, American Way (American
Airlines in-flight magazine) and newspapers, including The Washington Post,
The Los Angeles Times, The Miami Herald, The Kansas City Star, The Chicago
Tribune, The San Francisco Examiner and USA TODAY. Her work has been translated into Japanese,
Spanish, Dutch, and Portuguese and has appeared in Australian periodicals.
During her career, van Hulsteyn has been assistant travel editor of Mademoiselle
Magazine and owner of an award-winning advertising agency in Austin and
advertising lecturer at the University of Texas. She has won the Southwest
Writers Workshop Storyteller Award for Best Novel for her murder mystery
in-progress and was awarded first place for non-fiction by The New Mexico Press
Women for her book “Mind Your Own Business.”

Monday, December 2, 2013

I am convinced that the only escape from the Theater of the Absurd is a sense of humor. Case in point:

Recently, we attended the World Parkinson Congress in Montreal, Canada. The event was a vast melting pot of neurologists and experts, PD patients and their partners. After three days of non-stop workshops and networking, David and I decided to take a brief foray to romantic, charming Quebec City. We settled into a cozy room in a pleasant hotel in the heart of “Vieux--Quebec.”

In the spirit of gastronomical adventure, I asked the handsome and knowledgeable concierge to make reservations at the best French restaurant in town. He did so with aplomb. After he made the arrangements, we chatted, and I came to learn that he was a hockey coach as well as a bon vivant. This should have given me a clue as to his preference in restaurants.

"Restaurant Pierre" was classically French, he assured me. It provided a magnificent rack of lamb and Crepes Suzette. The food was stellar, the ambiance perfect, the champagne was flowing...

If only I could get there!

For when the taxi deposited us at the given address, beneath the carved wood shingle for "Restaurant Pierre", swaying in the brisk autumn breeze, we looked to find the entrance at the top of two flights of very steep stairs--and I in a wheelchair!!

The situation was so absurd that I felt like Alice in one of Lewis Carroll’s maddening conundrums, peering at the door to a magnificent land, but unable to enter. David and I caught each other’s eye and began to laugh. It was frustrating, yes, but tres amusing.

Not to worry--our hosts had everything under control. Once the maitre’d received news of our arrival, he opened the distant door at the top of the steps to unleash a team of waiters who, presumably, were off-season, hockey players themselves. They swooped down the stairs, grabbed my wheelchair and carried me up. I was terrified; I was grateful; I was amused.

And suddenly, with a fan fare that only the French could pull off , I was placed at my table.

Breathlessly gazing upon this beautiful table, shining with silver, wine glasses and candles, David and I started to laugh again, as he observed “Talk about being carried away by the perfect dining experience!”

“You know, there’s nothing I like better at dinner parties than a dramatic table setting,” I piped up, “but this is the first time that I felt like the centerpiece!”

At that moment, the entire dining room began to applaud as the waiter poured us champagne ordered by an anonymous customer.
“Bon Apetit,” many of the dining room patrons said in unison.
Even before the splendid rack of lamb and Crepes Suzette graced our table, we knew this was a repast we would never forget!